


Fathom

by amusensical



Series: Forging a Bond [12]
Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: 18-Month Time Gap (Rusty Quill Gaming), Canon Compliant, M/M, Magic, Puppy Carter, Sex, vulgarity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 11:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29874006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amusensical/pseuds/amusensical
Summary: Barnes and Carter prepare for the new mission. They travel to Alexandria and find themselves in a room, with a door, and a bed.
Relationships: Commander James Barnes/Howard Carter (Rusty Quill Gaming)
Series: Forging a Bond [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2079369
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	Fathom

**Author's Note:**

> _**Fathom**_ comes to us from Old English fæthm, meaning “outstretched arms.” The noun fathom, which now commonly refers to a measure (especially of depth) of six feet, was originally used for the distance, fingertip to fingertip, created by stretching one's arms straight out from the sides of the body. In one of its earliest uses, the verb fathom meant to encircle something with the arms as if for measuring and was also a synonym for “embrace.” In the 1600s, however, fathom took on the meaning of using a sounding line to measure depth. At the same time, the verb also developed senses synonymous with “probe” or “investigate,” and is now frequently used to refer to the act of getting to the bottom of something (figuratively speaking).  
> <https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/fathom#learn-more>

Back in the tent, Carter goes right to his cupboard, pulls out the bundle that holds his full kit, tosses it onto the cot.

“He didn’t say anything about getting paid, us I mean not just expenses. Seems that would be fair, especially if we find something.”

“Let’s see how we do first, yeah?” says Barnes as he retrieves his sword with its scabbard and belt from under his cot, lays it on top. “You and your treasures.” A smaller bundle is a bandolier for flasks, a match to Carter’s.

Carter unbuttons the new shirt, folds it and puts it into the case from Wilde, pulls on his regular shirt, ties it at the neck. He pulls out the journal, puts it in his pack. “After lunch I’ll go back up there, get the pens.”

“Bring your little book, maybe, see if he has ideas? You’ll need to write the ink spell in there.”

“Good idea, actually. He’s proper magic, he is.” 

Barnes looks at Carter. “Not now he isn’t.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You don’t know. Sure, why would you.”

“I don’t know what?” 

“Wilde doesn’t have his magic. He’s cursed, almost died. He wears something, prevents the curse but stops his magic, too.”

“Can't they fix the curse?" 

“Nobody knows what it’s from, who’s doing it.”

“That’s awful.”

“You know probably better than anyone what he's going through, so be nice.”

“He’s turned out to be pretty different than I thought.”

“He’d likely say the same about you.”

“What else today?” 

“I need to talk to them all, you should come with.”

“Not sure why.”

“They need to see everything is all right after last night. Did you see Esther?”

“Yeah, early. She patted my cheek, told me to be a good boy.”

“As long as those bruises are gone. Start fresh.”

“What’ll we do for healing?”

“There are temples, other healers. We’ll get potions in Alexandria to carry with us. Hope this is as tame as he let on and we don’t need them.”

“I hope there’s _something_ a bit interesting.”

“Mind what you wish for. Be sure to brush up on your traps.”

In the common tent at midday, they sit with the rest of the team, share what Wilde said about the rescue and the bare outline of the new mission. 

“Special expertise? What, cards and knife tricks?”

“Exactly,” says Carter. “And picking locks.”

“Shut up, Carter,” says Barnes. “Carter is a proper expert, history and languages, so they’re sending him to look at some stuff.”

“Good luck then,” says Plessa. 

Carter looks up, surprised.

“Thanks,” says Barnes. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

They shake hands, bump shoulders, disperse to afternoon duties.

Up at the house, Wilde has a cloth roll for Carter with pens and nibs, and goes over the ink spell until he has the way of it in his own voice, a hum like Wilde’s, but tapping a particular rhythm with the pen to fill it instead of the elegant finger twirl that Wilde demonstrates, would use if he could. 

Carter writes the new spell into his little book, ink on the other pages already starting to fade. Maybe after this mission he can add something new. Wilde can’t tell how many he might be able to do at this point, says just try. 

Carter walks to the camp from the house, adding an extra stutter, almost a skip, every few steps. Going to the healer and meeting with Wilde meant he didn’t run this morning, and he is twitchy with unburnt energy and anticipation. Their tent is empty, so Carter heads to the common tent, looking for Barnes. Sure enough, he’s at one of the long tables, papers spread around, making notes and lists.

“I’m going for a run,” says Carter. “Interested?”

“Nah, getting through this lot. Go on, though, settle yourself.” 

“Take the edge off anyway, I hope.”

“How was Wilde?”

“Clever. Sad.” Carter shrugs. “Wilde.”

“Hey, when you come back, I might be having a nap, so be quiet yeah?”

Carter raises his eyebrows. 

“Expecting a late night,” says Barnes, half-smiling, flushed. 

“Hnng. Now I need a run and a _cold_ shower. And a nap.”

Barnes is indeed asleep, or seems so, when Carter gets back from his post-run shower. Carter naps whenever he can, so he has no trouble falling asleep. When Barnes shakes his shoulder, footsteps are going by the tent, others on the way to dinner.

At dinner, Wilde and Barnes mostly talk about the naval station. Carter flips through the Tahan folder again, reads the letters of introduction, makes notes in his new journal, books to look for. They’ll need at least a day in the library, maybe two, to get the background on both locations. 

After dinner, they pick up their stuff from the tent, meet Wilde at the old market. At this time of day Einstein can show up here without causing a disturbance. Just as the last bit of sun disappears below the horizon, there’s the familiar _thawipp_ of teleportation and Einstein's big smile and wild hair. 

Wilde shakes their hands again, Einstein takes their hands, and _thawipp_ they are gone.

They arrive in another covered market, this one just shuttered for the night rather than abandoned. Einstein hugs them again, _thawipps_ away. In the twilight they see people on the street, some in the lighted windows of houses, more in the tavern across the street. There is regular traffic on the street, wagons and riders, a few carriages. 

Their destination is a couple of streets over and further out. They are carrying more than the others on the street, but except for Barnes’ sword they don’t seem to be more obviously armed, though most of Carter's weapons aren’t immediately visible. Those who seem to notice them don't seem particularly interested. 

Carter walks just behind Barnes’ left shoulder, as usual, sometimes stops, leans down as if to adjust a boot while he checks the street behind them. When they reach the correct street, they first walk by the house, noting the carriage house with lit windows above. From the next street an alley runs behind the house and the carriage house.

“Good setup,” says Barnes, turning into the alley, looking forward as Carter scans behind. A pair of tall, long-haired dogs guards the back of the house, their elegant appearance somewhat ruined by low growls. They would need to step past the dogs to get to the door, so they just stand, assume the dogs’ reaction will alert someone to their presence. 

The door opens and a man steps out, human, Egyptian, as expected. 

“It’s a mild evening for travelers,” he says, in English.

“Could get wild later,” Barnes answers, and the man puts out a hand. 

“Any friend of Wilde’s,” he says. “Welcome to Alexandria. Got you all set upstairs.” They follow him up the stairs at the side of the building, through the door to a large room, comfortably furnished. 

“There’s a cistern on the roof, so you have your own water,” he says. “And a heater with a fire-elemental, so hot water for washing, too.” 

“We’ve been camping in the desert for months,” says Barnes, as Carter prowls around the space. “This is luxury. Thank you for the use of it.”

He hands Barnes a key. “You can buy me a drink,” he says. “Let’s go around the corner to the tavern.”

Barnes and Carter exchange a look.

“Just the one,” says Barnes. “Been a long day.”

They traipse back down the stairs, back past the house, back the two blocks to the tavern. He talks to them about something, and they answer, over shots of something that smells of honey and goes down like turpentine. 

Carter heads to the washroom. Barnes sees him in the corner of his vision, talking to the barman. He hands over coins, presumably, stashes the bottles he gets in return into his pack.

Carter doesn’t sit back down at the table, so Barnes stands, and their host takes the hint and stands, too. 

“Thanks again,” says Barnes as they part ways at the back door of the house. Carter goes up the stairs first, as usual, and then they go in.

Barnes slides the lock closed. He unbuckles his sword belt, hangs it on one of the hooks next to the door, turns around.

“Wait. Stop. Just stay over there.”

Carter is stood at the other side of the room, near the fireplace. He looks miserable, arms hugged around himself, blushing furiously.

Midstep Barnes stops, and his eager smile is replaced by concern. “Holding. What’s wrong?” 

“If you touch me I’ll be done.”

“Ah.” Barnes swallows, exhales. 

“And you’ve been waiting, I mean we’ve been waiting, and I just want it to be good, take time, but you should know that it happens quick sometimes, and--”

“Hey.” Barnes is smiling again, a flush visible where his shirt is open at the top.

“Hey yourself. Don’t even say something nice to me because at this point you could probably send me just like that.”

“Take your boots off.”

Carter looks up from the floor to Barnes’ face, raises his eyebrows. “What?”

“Take your boots off. Whatever happens next, at least take your boots off.” Barnes walks across the room, sits in the center of the sofa under the window, leans over and starts loosening the laces on one of his boots. 

Carter just watches him, then after half a minute walks over to the small dining table, sits in one of the straight-back chairs and starts unknotting his own laces. Yanking one boot off, he throws it toward the door so it lands with a _thud_ right under Barnes’ sword. 

When Barnes looks up at the sound, Carter shrugs. “Nobody to bother.” Some of the hectic color has gone out of his face. When the other boot is untied, he slips the sheathed dagger from inside it before tossing the boot to lie with the other, sets the dagger on the table. 

“Now what?” 

“You can just sit there.”

“Or, I could sit over there.”

“Yeh.” Barnes’ hands are open on his thighs, shirt all the way unbuttoned, bare feet flat on the rug. The smile is still there, and a flare to his nostrils that means he’s paying attention to his breaths.

“You are so _fucking_ gorgeous.” Carter stands, shucks off his jacket, drapes it on the back of his chair. “No wonder I’m losing my mind.” With a twist he pulls the sheath that sits in the small of his back, holds it as he flicks open a fastening on the strap across his chest, shrugs out of the leather shoulder rig, drapes it over the jacket.

Watching, Barnes shifts, settles back.

Carter steps over to the sofa, kneels on the seat next to Barnes, slides the sheathed knife between the seat cushion and the sofa back. 

He leans forward and rests his lips against Barnes’ mouth, presses forward softly.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” he hums, and Barnes’ hand comes up off his thigh. Carter grabs his wrist, pushes his hand down until it is pinned back on his thigh, smiles into Barnes' soft growl. 

Carter leans in further until his elbow is against the back of the couch over Barnes’ shoulder, his hand dug into his hair. Barnes opens his mouth to Carter’s tongue, tips his head back into his hand. Carter sucks and licks at Barnes’ mouth, first the top lip with its rough edge of stubble, then the soft bottom lip. Exploring, he dips his tongue all the way down into the space between bottom lip and teeth. At Barnes’ _ah_ he does it again, then again, petting at the sensitive spot with his tongue until they are both gasping. 

Carter pulls back, rubs his cheek against Barnes’ face, shuffles back on his knees, then stands, legs on either side of Barnes’ knee. 

“Can I sit on you, sit on your lap?”

“Course. Kiss like that you can do anything.”

Carter is undoing buttons, hooks his thumbs into the waist of his trousers, just over his hips. 

“And it’s all right? Y’know?”

“More than.” 

In one moment, in what seems like one motion, Carter is out of his trousers, pants, socks. 

In the next moment he is on Barnes’ lap, ass warm on his thighs, cock even warmer, and wet, already, against his belly. Barnes tugs at his shirt, lifts his chin, and Carter pulls at the tie, flings the shirt over his head, grabs for Barnes’ shoulders as a shudder takes him.

Barnes puts his hands over Carter's hands on his shoulders.

“Touching you now, all right?” 

Carter’s _yeah_ is a breathy moan.

Barnes traces his palms all the way up Carter’s arms to his shoulders as Carter moves in his lap, reaches over, strokes from the top of his shoulders all the way down his back, and Carter’s body follows his hands in an arching wave, rocking hard when Barnes’ hands are pressed against his ass.

“There. Right there,” Carter says roughly, “Your hands, keep them right there.” Barnes fits his palms against the tops of Carter’s hips, fingers spread into the flexing muscles there. 

Carter moves one hand to press against his cock, fucks into the tight space between his palm and the smooth skin and solid muscle of Barnes’ belly and chest. 

Eyes closed, he moves, slides, chants, thrusts, _yeah, mmm, finally, oh fuck yeah_ , and a moaning hum as he comes, spills onto Barnes’ chest.

As Carter’s movements slow, Barnes wraps his arms around him, pauses when Carter pulls his hand out from between them, pulls him close until they are pressed together, slick warmth between them, breathing hard.

Barnes shifts his weight, rolls Carter off him and onto the sofa. Carter tumbles onto the seat, stretches his legs with a _hmmmmm_. Barnes shrugs out of his shirt and lays it over Carter’s middle, leans over to kiss his grinning mouth. “You,” he says, pushes Carter’s sweaty curls off his forehead, smiles when Carter tips his head into his hand. 

Standing, Barnes rubs his fingertips from the base of his throat to his breastbone, down, then up, and puts his fingers in his mouth. 

Barnes steps to the counter that serves as kitchen, fills a cup from the tap, drinks, fills it again and brings it back to the sofa. 

“Here.” He nudges Carter’s hand with the cup. 

Carter takes the cup, sits up, Barnes’ shirt crumpled in his lap. 

“Beer?” 

“In my pack,” says Carter. “Open the right buckle first.”

Barnes goes to Carter’s pack, opens it carefully and pulls out the bottles from the tavern. He puts two into the cold chest, takes the other two to the sofa, hands one to Carter, opens the other and takes a long pull. When Carter reaches his bottle toward him, he taps it with his and drinks again.

“Come to bed with me.” Barnes puts his hand out, the flush returning to his chest. Carter takes his hand, snags his knife from between the cushions, lets himself be tugged upright, led.

The bed is tucked into an alcove across the room, near the door to the washroom. There’s a thick mattress on a metal bedstead, pillows, layers of blankets. Barnes leads him to the bed, tugs back the covers over the dark blue sheets.

“Sit. Right back.”

Carter tucks his knife under the edge of the mattress. There’s a candle on the table next to the bed, so he whistles softly into his closed fist, touches a fingertip to the wick. In the glow the bed seems an island. Carter drinks, lines up the two pillows, tips the bottle for the last drops, puts it next to the candle. 

Barnes refills the water cup, goes to his pack and gets the little jug of oil, puts them both down on the table. 

“What’s that?” Carter asks, watches Barnes take off the rest of his clothes and set them in a neat pile on the chest at the foot of the bed. 

In the candlelight, Barnes seems a sculpture of curved shadows, his cock flushed dark, the blush across his chest only a shade lighter. 

He rubs his knuckles against Carter's cheek, then puts his hand on his chest and pushes as he puts one knee on the bed. Carter shifts back, swivels to lie down, and Barnes lies down facing him, cups his jaw.

“It’s oil. So we can, so it’s easier. Nicer.” 

“Oh.” says Carter. 

“Can I?”

“Yeah. Oh, yeah,” and they’re kissing again, Barnes nudging at his mouth with his lips, dipping into his mouth with his tongue, Carter with a fistful of Barnes’ hair.

As he kisses, Barnes slides one hand under Carter's head, tucks into the hair behind his ear, cupping the curve of his skull. With the other hand he strokes against Carter’s throat, down to his collarbones, tracing the curve of his chest and fitting his fingers against his ribs. Between the last two ribs, a scar as long as his finger. 

“Wanted this so long, y’know. To touch you.” 

“Want you to.” 

Barnes presses his face into the hollow of Carter’s neck and shoulder.

“You’ll say, if it’s too much? Or anything?”

“Yeah. But I want it. All of it.” 

Barnes' low moan, right at Carter’s ear, makes him shudder.

Barnes kisses against Carter’s throat, then down, not softly. Carter arches up against his mouth, shivers, moves under his hand, that soft humming moan vibrating through Barnes’ lips and under his fingers. 

Carter reaches up with one hand, grabs one of the upright bars. He shifts on the bed, moves his legs so one leg is laid across the bed, one is pressed up against Barnes, hip against hip, Barnes hard against his thigh.

He kisses down Carter’s chest, licks at a sticky spot. Carter’s sharp inhale makes him raise his head, look up at Carter's face, eyes gone dark with pleasure.

“Sorry, ticklish?”

“Nah. Just you tasting, makes me crazy.” 

Barnes pushes up on one arm, twists and reaches for the oil jug. He shifts to half-sitting, pulls the cork stopper out and dribbles oil onto his fingers, a few drops spilling onto Carter’s belly. 

Eyes bright, Carter looks from Barnes’ hands to his face, rubs at the spilled oil. The shimmer to it could be candlelight, could be trembling.

Barnes returns the jug and stopper to the table, turns back and lays one hand over Carter’s, smiles. With the other hand he reaches between Carter's legs, slides his slick fingers behind his balls, rubs at his hole. Carter’s long hissing inhale catches, stops, catches again. 

Barnes presses with his middle finger, breaches, slides his finger in, moves, gently. As Carter rolls his hips, he presses harder, pushes his finger deeper, sliding into Carter’s tight heat.

“Feels so good,” says Barnes, low, urgent. “All right?” 

“Mmhmm. Yeah. _Please_.” 

He fits another finger beside the first, slides in slowly. Carter grips hard at Barnes’ wrist, moves against his hand, rocking sideways to open to his touch, arching up to take his fingers deeper. 

Barnes shifts upward, kisses Carter’s open mouth. He moves one leg then the other until he is knelt between Carter’s legs, fingers length-deep inside him. 

Barnes leans forward, slides his cock against his own hand , slides his fingers out and presses the head of his cock against Carter’s hole. He curves his hand around Carter’s hip for leverage, curves his hips forward as Carter pushes against him, a held breath, another sliding thrust and he is in. They are moving together then, each thrust deeper, and the breath goes out of him in what could be a sob, or a laugh. 

Carter raises up, meets his thrusts, anchored by his fist clutching the headboard, heels against the bed, a taut, thrumming arc. Barnes wraps his hands around Carter’s hips, almost exactly where his hands were earlier, but gripping now. 

There are words in Carter’s keening moan, _yes_ and _yes_ and _please_ and a quick gasping gulp for breath at the center of each stroke, at the impact, filling and filled. 

Barnes drives into him, faster, harder, until his wordless growling hum breaks, and he stops, just stops, holding Carter still for a moment, one breathless moment, then grinds and bucks into him, wracked and shuddering.

Head bowed, Barnes breathes deep, shivers on the exhale. Carter reaches, rubs his palms gently over Barnes’ hands where they are still clenched around his hips, rocks his hips slowly, small rippling waves after the storm of Barnes’ coming. Carter strokes his hands harder.

“Hey. Barnes. Let go.”

Barnes raises his head, eyes unfocused. His hands relax, and Carter clasps his wrists, moving his hands to lie on his thighs. 

“Huh. Hmmm.” Barnes looks up at Carter’s face, then down along his body to his cock, curved against his belly, further to where his own cock disappears into Carter.

“All right?” Carter rubs up Barnes’ arms as far as he can reach, back down to his hands.

“Yeah. That,” says Barnes, gently fits his hands back where he was gripping, rubs his thumbs over the marks. He drags his palms upward, strokes along Carter’s sides, leans as he reaches to trace Carter’s collarbones, strokes down his arms to where his hands lay limp on the bed, then back up. 

Carter leans his head back into the pillow, shivers when Barnes strokes his throat, down across his chest. “That feels… _so good_ ,” Carter murmurs, then moans as Barnes wraps his hand around his cock.

“Mmmmnn,” hums Barnes, rocking back, pulling out. “You know what would feel even better? My mouth on you.”

Carter bucks hard, rolling his hips, thrusting up into his hand. “Gods. _Fuck._ Yes.” 

Barnes shifts his knees back, wraps his other arm under Carter’s waist. He keeps the stroking pressure with his fist, dips his head to lick at Carter’s cock where it glistens, humming and sucking at the wet there. Carter is already lost to it, rolls toward his mouth and moans aloud as Barnes takes his cock in one smooth motion, closing around him, his tongue stroking.

Carter grabs at Barnes’ shoulder with one hand, pushes the other into Barnes’ hair, pushing away the sweaty strands in the front so he can see Barnes’ closed eyes, the muscles of his face working, his lips moving up and down around his cock. 

Barnes tucks his free hand under Carter’s ass and moves faster, taking Carter’s heedless rhythm, sometimes sucking hard around the head, sometimes taking the full length in one smooth stroke after another, until the rhythm falls apart, Carter’s hips jerking and stuttering, his voice a keening whimper. Barnes moves his hand until it’s pressed behind Carter’s balls, slides a finger inside. Carter cries out, a low wavering shout, and Barnes swallows around him, keeps up the steady, sliding pressure as Carter thrashes under his mouth and against his hand, until the pulsing waves ease to shudders, then to a fine trembling. 

Grabbing the edge of the blanket bunched up against the wall, Barnes crawls up and collapses next to Carter, tugging the blanket over them both. Carter rolls against him, puts his head on his chest as Barnes puts his arms around him, presses a kiss into his messy curls.

“Worth it,” Carter mumbles. “I hated waiting, but that.”

“Yeah,” says Barnes. “That.” He kisses the top of Carter’s head again, hugs harder for a moment. “Thank you.”

“You too,” says Carter. 

After a little while Carter, then Barnes, gets out of bed, uses the washroom, drains then fills the water cup. Carter is almost asleep when Barnes blows out the candle, climbs over him to the wall side, spoons against his back. 

“Night.”

“Mmmm.”


End file.
